by Robin Greene
Recognizing the “it” as a vague or broad pronoun, I try to find a noun replacement. But I’m not an academic paper. I’m more poem than scholarship.
I close the closet door and see my cell phone on the dresser. I pick it up and turn it on. I’ve had more messages: three calls from my mom, two from Nick, two from Cal, and one from Will. I sit with Jake, who has joined me on the bed.
I can’t call Nick, so I’ll have to wait until he calls me. But I can call my mom, Cal, and Will. I check the time—10:45 a.m., certainly acceptable. So, I try Cal. No answer. I leave a message. I try Will, and he answers.
“Hey, Mom,” he says.
“Catching you at an okay time?” I ask.
“On my break. Just taught an early class. Have a few minutes though. What’s up?”
“Nothing. Saw I missed your call.”
“Yeah. Called the other night. Just wanted to tell you that I sold some wine glasses and a vase. To a couple from Fayetteville. The woman said she knew you from the Arts Council or something. But I don’t remember her name.”
“Cool. Congrats about the sales. How are you?”
“Good. Real good. Went climbing last Wednesday. Day off. But have you heard from Dad?”
“Yeah, he called, but I missed him.”
“Well, when you talk, tell him to call me. I have a question about my truck.”
“Problem?”
“No, I just need to change the oil, want to ask him something. No hurry, really. Listen, I got to go. Get back. I’ll talk to you later. Will you be around?”
“Yes,” I say. “Call when you have some time. We’ll catch up. And I’ll tell Dad to call you.”
“Love you, Mom.”
“Love you, too, Will. Bye.”
k
By afternoon, I’m working. Ideas come to me. I write about my junior high school walkout and give my female protagonist the name Anna, in honor of Tolstoy’s Anna. My book, I’ve decided, though autobiographical, will be third-person limited, and Anna should be about five years older than I am so that she’s more caught up in the sixties. So much to say. I’m writing again.
When the phone rings, I’m inclined to ignore it, but I’ve missed calls for too long, and I know I need to answer.
“Hello,” I say, hit, and save my work.
“Rae?” Mom asks. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
“Sorry, Mom.” Then, turning off my laptop, I lean back on my chair, hear my mother’s deep, familiar sigh—the cigarette sigh without the cigarette—and ask, “What’s wrong?”
“Bad news. Very bad. Where are you?”
“I’m home, Mom. Sitting in my study. What’s going on?”
“He’s dying.” She says this in a matter-of-fact voice, her in-control voice.
“Where are you, Mom? Are you home, at the hospital?”
“I’m home. Lydia took me and the girls to the hospital today very early, and we stayed there for about three hours. He had a procedure and tests yesterday. Not good. Julia had to work, so we came home. Hannah’s inside, watching TV. Lydia’s getting ready for her shift this afternoon. I’m down in the laundry room, catching up with our wash.”
“Tell me what happened.” I look out the window, onto the summer morning.
“The other day, no, two days ago. Rae, I can’t keep track of time. I haven’t been working. I’ll probably get fired. It’s okay. I don’t need that stupid job. Dennis got sick, was in terrible pain. We went to his doctor, who immediately sent him to the hospital. The cancer’s metastasized to his liver. They want to do more chemo, but it doesn’t make sense.” Long sigh again. “He’s given up. I don’t blame him.”
I’m quiet, staring at the large Bradford pear tree, the shape of its branches, a near perfect oval. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“What should I do, Rae? He’s going to die.” I hear my mom’s loud, awful sobs, punctuated with “It’s not right. Not right, not right...”
“How long does he have?”
“They don’t know or won’t say. Best guess, maybe a few months.” My mom blows her nose. “Every day, it’s been the same thing. Hannah changing his stoma bandage. Dennis getting out barely, seeing friends some nights when he feels well enough. But mostly he’s been on the couch, in terrible pain. Down to 135 lbs. Didn’t want to go back to the doctor, but finally the pain was so overwhelming that we had to bring him in.”
“Are you going to try to go back to work?”
“Yes, I’m supposed to go on Monday. We’ll see. I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.” She blows her nose again. “I’m sorry to burden you with all this.”
I’m silent for a few minutes, thinking about whose burden it is, then ask, “How are the girls doing?”
“Hannah’s a joy, so smart, helpful. Julia…well, is Julia. She’s working and going to school. But I don’t think she’ll finish.” My mother sighs again.
“Keep me posted, Mom. I’m sorry. So sorry. Let me know if anything changes.”
“I will. I will. Love you,” she responds. “But answer your phone.”
“Okay, Mom. Love you, too.” We hang up.
k
I open my laptop, think about doing more work, but I close and unplug it, begin pacing again—first, to Cal’s old room over the garage, and next, into Will’s old bedroom, with the two old dressers that came from our South Shelburne house, from Dennis’s childhood bedroom. They’re mid-century modern; I touch the white laminate top and burst into tears. My weeping is loud, and I give myself permission to let go. Like in childbirth, I moan along with my sobs.
“Dennis, Dennis, Dennis,” I call out. “What’s happened to you?”
But as I ask this, I already know. Dennis has played out the drama that’s defined his life, and he has hurt the people he’s loved most—our parents, his wife, his daughters, and me. My parents were in denial, about his gambling, about dealing with his rape. My parents could have insisted that Dennis see a therapist—especially when he was young—but they never did. They could have discouraged his stealing by preventing easy access to their money, jewelry, and bank accounts, but they never did. They could have given him consequences for his actions, but they never did. And Dennis? He was driven by forces greater than he could manage. And soon, he’ll be dead.
Late afternoon sun throws gray shadows across the wood floor of my study. I sit, lean forward on the futon, shake my head, feel by brother’s presence.
“Dennis,” I say to the child he was, “I’m sorry for you.” Then I breathe and say to the dying man I no longer know, “I’m sorry for you, too.”
k
I feel very old. My kids are grown. Their bedrooms are guestrooms. Tears well up again. Our lives happen in slow motion, speed up, then they’re over.
I walk to the hall bathroom for some toilet tissue, dry my eyes, blow my nose. Out the bathroom window is our backyard, and I imagine my boys playing there with Byron, our previous dog. We had a fort and a sandbox. Had I known how quickly they’d grow up, I would have given them more. More of my time, my heart, my self.
I’m sitting now on the closed toilet seat lid, weeping for everything that’s lost or will be lost. I can’t stop. I cup my face in my hands, let grief overtake me. Then, I walk to my bedroom, pull back the quilt, get into bed, decide to sleep, and quickly free-fall into fitful memory-dreams, cascading, colliding.
It’s 1969 again. I’m in the hallway of Lawrence Junior High, but I’m sixty years old. I’m listening to a transistor radio, hearing Neil Armstrong’s voice: “One small step for man, one large step for mankind.” Then, I’m sixteen, at the Madison Square Garden Rolling Stones’ concert, then in Kevin’s bed, losing my virginity. In Washington Square Park, under the arch, I smell the city summer air as two men dispute a chess move on the public concrete chessboard under a mimosa tree.
My mother slaps my face, asks, “What were you thinking?” I’ve just spilled another glass of milk on the wobbly kitchen table in Dunhurst, Qu
eens. My father kisses me as I sit on his lap. Men smoke cigars, play poker at the dining room table, and my father shows me how to hold cards, fan-shaped, in a single hand. I walk slowly down the aisle toward Nick on my wedding day. My dad walks by my side; my tears fall as everyone looks on. I’m twenty-one. I’m marrying Nick, promising not till death do us part, but rather for as long as love shall last. He pulls back my veil. We kiss.
I’m in my dorm room at the University of Bridgeport, reading in bed, evening light fading from the narrow window over my desk. It’s a paperback edition of To Bedlam and Part Way Back, Anne Sexton’s first book of poems, the one she wrote as therapy at her psychiatrist’s suggestion. On the book’s back cover is a photo of Sexton, who looks like my mother. I hear a woman’s voice—Mom? I ask. Anne? Could that be you?
And we are magic talking to itself,
Noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins
Forgotten. Am I still lost?
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself.
thirty-three
My cell phone is playing a song; it’s singing me awake.
I turn over in bed, my left hand finding the phone on my night-table. I don’t check the caller-ID, just answer.
“We have news,” I hear. “Jess and I. Big news.” Cal’s voice is loud and bright.
I’m sitting up now, looking out the bedroom window at a pale black sky gently ending the day. It’s probably 8:30 at night, I think, which means I’ve been sleeping for hours. I immediately feel awake.
“Hey, Cal,” I say. “Good to hear from you. News? Great. What is it?”
“Jess is pregnant!”
The words are like starbursts of light in my head. I stand up.
“Wow!” I say. “Double wow!” I pace the bedroom, then run down the stairs, looking for space. I need space.
“How far along?” I’m cradling the phone, in the sunroom, then stepping into our backyard and onto our patio. The dark sky is soft, welcoming.
“We wanted to wait until the doctor told us everything is okay. She’s about eleven and a half weeks. We’re really happy, Mom.”
Tears well up. But I’m grinning, too—and somehow enabled, ready to accept myself as mother, grandmother, gender-neutral or gendered enough. I sit on a webbed lawn chair. Jake has come through his dog door and is standing beside me. I put my hand down, stroke his back; he wags his tail.
“You there, Mom?” I hear.
“Yes. I’m totally here. Just happy. No, thrilled. Really thrilled.” I feel a shift. Continents have drifted apart, then together. Time has stopped. A breeze passes, lifting the branches of our weeping cherry.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“I’m walking to the pizza place. Jess is at home.”
We chat about his work—he has a new client in Connecticut, and he’ll be able to visit his uncle and grandmother while he’s there. He’ll tell them the news in person, he says, “So don’t you tell them.”
“I won’t,” I promise as I drift from tears and memories of my own pregnancies to incredible presence. The earth stops shifting for a moment, and I’m mindfully attentive. A new baby. A first grandchild. A reason to forgive, a reason to continue.
“Well, I got to go, Mom. Can you tell Dad to call me? Give him the news. But I want to talk to him myself. Soon. Please.”
“I love you so much, Cal. And Jess. Give her my love.”
“You coming up to Boston before school starts, right?”
“That’s the plan. A quick trip when Dad gets back. Probably next month. Can’t wait.”
“Jess and I will call again. Wanted to give you our news as soon as possible. Love you, Mom. Oh, tell Will for us. And Sonya. Everyone but Grandma and Uncle John can know.”
“Okay, sweetheart. This is fabulous. I love you so much.”
“Bye, Mom. Love you, too. Got to go.”
“Bye, Cal. Love you.” I hit the screen’s end-call button. But as soon as I do, the phone rings again, and this time, it’s Nick.
“Well hello,” I say. “How are you?”
“Where have you been? I was worried. Been trying to reach you for days. You okay?”
“Great,” I answer, standing up, walking up the back steps to enter the sunroom, where I sit down on a comfortable chair, put my feet up on the coffee table.
“I can’t talk for long. Just wanted to check in, make sure you’re okay. I’ve been calling and couldn’t get you. Where have you been?” Nick’s words spill out. I can’t tell if he’s angry or just concerned.
“Look,” I say. “I’m great now. I wasn’t, but I am now. I have big news.”
“Okay,” he says. “What’s up?”
“Jess is pregnant. Cal just called a minute ago.”
“Wow. You’re kidding!” his words are so present that I can feel him, as if he’s beside me, almost as if he is me. Nick loves me, I now recognize.
“Yeah,” I say. “No, not kidding. She’s about twelve weeks. We’re going to be grandparents.”
“I love you,” Nick says.
“I love you, too.” Tears again. For the millionth time. I wipe them with my hand.
“Look,” he says. “I’m coming home soon. Can’t wait to see you. Just another week.”
“Yes,” I say.
“I’ll call Cal and Jess tomorrow. But this is so good. So good.” I hear people in the background.
“Yes, call them. Also call Will. He wants to talk to you about his truck. And tell him the news. But go now. Enjoy.”
“Speak with you tomorrow. Yes? And I’ll call Will.”
“Yes. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Then I’m off the phone, and alone again with Jake in the sunroom. I look out at the black sky and notice a half moon sitting low, illuminating the eastern horizon. I hear cicadas. And I’m hungry.
But as I rise to enter the house, I see Dennis’s shadow—his young face, his mad-glad face—beside me.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” I tell him.
“I know,” he whispers. “Do you forgive me?”
But as I turn toward him, finally ready to say “yes,” his shadow dissipates and steps aside.
acknowledgments
I want to thank the following individuals whose love and friendship sustained me through the writing of this novel: Michael, Dan, Ben, Jen, Jenna, Ruth, Cristina, Emily, Joe, and, Barbara. Additionally, I want to thank my granddaughter, Lilly, whose light and love offer me a quality of unmatched joy. And, finally, I want to thank Pat, my friend who left this earth a better place.
the author
Robin Greene is a Professor of English and Writing and the Director of the Writing Center at Methodist University in Fayetteville, NC, where she held the McLean Endowed Chair in English from 2013-2016. Greene has published two collections of poetry (Memories of Light and Lateral Drift), two editions of a nonfiction book (Real Birth: Women Share Their Stories), and a novel (Augustus: Narrative of a Slave Woman).
Greene is co-founder and editor of Longleaf Press, Methodist University’s literary press, co-founder of the Sandhills Dharma Group, a Buddhist sitting group, and a certified yoga teacher. Every year, Greene leads an annual women’s writing retreat in Oaxaca, Mexico, where she enjoys combining yoga and contemplative practices with her teaching. Greene is a past recipient of a NEA/NC Arts Council fellowship in writing, and has won teaching awards. She has published over eighty pieces of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction in literary journals and magazines. Originally from New York City, Greene makes her home in Fayetteville, NC. She holds a M.A. in English from Binghamton University and a M.F.A. in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Art at Norwich University.
Robin Greene is available for readings and workshops, and encourages readers to connect with her through Facebook at robingreene.author and her website at robingrWeene-writer.com.
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